


And I Wonder If I Ever Cross Your Mind (For Me It Happens All the Time)

by arituzz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, HP: EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 21:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13326270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arituzz/pseuds/arituzz
Summary: Harry knows his way to happiness is going to be nothing short of difficult. He needs to stop drinking. Go to therapy. Find a job.What he does not calculate is falling in love with Draco Malfoy in the process.ORFive times Harry and Draco meet at Pansy's annual party and one time they don't. (Plus one time they go together.)





	And I Wonder If I Ever Cross Your Mind (For Me It Happens All the Time)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Need You Now," by Lady Antebellum.

**[December 2000]**

Harry knows it has to stop.

Ginny is staring accusingly at him from the apartment door, her arms crossed over her chest and a disgruntled frown on her face. “Harry James Potter.”

Full name. So it’s _that bad_ this time.

Harry barely remembers last night, but, judging from the empty bottle of firewhisky discarded beside him, he guesses it wasn’t much different from the other nights since the war ended: Killing the time testing how much alcohol he can handle before passing out on the sofa. Or the floor, like this time. If he’s being honest with himself, Harry barely remembers anything from the past few months.

“I know, Gin,” Harry tells her, sitting up. His head is burning. “I bloody know, trust me.”

“Take this,” Ginny says, offering him a glass of what looks like a mixture of every fizzy drink flavour plus vomit.

“Erm… What is it?” asks Harry.

“Hangover potion.”

“I think I’ll pass,” he says, deciding it’s not worth it. “I’m used to feeling like shit.”

“Not an option,” says Ginny. “Today is the party and I want you presentable.” She pauses, looking at Harry from top to bottom. “Or the closest we can manage. So, here.” Ginny offers Harry the revolting potion again, this time shoving it to his face. “Drink.”

Harry reluctantly takes the glass and makes the mistake to smell the content. It takes him a lot of effort not to gag. “What party?” he asks, and discards the drink on the nearest table.

“ _The_ party,” Ginny says. “Pansy’s annual party. She’s going to make our thing official. I told you like a month ago.”

_Ugh_. Harry really isn’t in the mood for a party. He isn’t in the mood for anything but lying around and drinking himself into oblivion. “I’m sorry, Ginny, I…”

Ginny cuts him off. “Save it,” she says. “I let you choose. Either you come to the party…”  She makes a dramatic pause, for effect. “Or I’ll make Pansy wake you up for the rest of your life.”

“Cruel,” Harry complains. The alternative sounds about as good as dying. Somehow, he will have to get to the party.

“You know I love you,” Ginny says, kissing him on the cheek. “Don’t forget to drink your potion.”

Harry ends up passing out again after Ginny leaves. He only recovers consciousness thanks to a Howler that Ginny sends him, scarily similar to the ones her mother used to send Ron when they were at Hogwarts.

Harry stands up and opts for drinking the potion this time. He grimaces as he swallows the greenish liquid. Definitely worse than hangover, he thinks.

After a quick–but very much needed–shower, Harry manages to Apparate in front of the Parkinsons’.

He isn’t that late–fifteen or twenty minutes– but all the seats are taken when Harry enters the dining hall. All except one. Harry thinks he must have consumed all his luck fighting Voldemort because of-fucking-course the only free space left is beside Draco bloody Malfoy.

Harry glances around quickly in search for someone else to talk to. _Anyone_. But nobody can save him, all the guests are already enjoying dinner. And Ron and Hermione chose the worst sodding time to go on their honeymoon.

“Shit,” Harry mutters under his breath as he takes the seat.

Malfoy looks bored. “Nice seeing you too, Potter.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry growls.

“Or what?” Malfoy asks. “You’ll stop gracing me with your presence?”

There’s a hint of exhaustion in Malfoy’s voice. To anyone else, Malfoy may look his usual meticulous, flawless self–he’s clearly put a lot of effort into it. But not to Harry, who has been paying close enough attention for all these years to tell the difference. Harry can see the bags under Malfoy’s eyes, hiding underneath the makeup; his green tie slightly crooked to the left; his smirk, a tad bit too forced; his eyes, lacking their usual spark and providing a glimpse of his exhaustion. Malfoy looks sloppy. Well, as sloppy as Draco Malfoy can be.

It reminds Harry of the Malfoy from the war.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll leave,” Harry says, more to himself than Malfoy.

“Be my guest then,” says Malfoy, half-smirking.

Bloody Malfoy. It’s very tempting to stand up and just leave. Technically, he _has_ come to the party, so that should save him from the Pansapocalypse. But Harry knows how important this party is to Ginny. She would never forgive him if he left.

“Nice beard, by the way,” Malfoy says, sarcastically.

_Fuck_ , Harry inwardly curses. He forgot to shave. Again. “Sod off, Malfoy.”

Harry pours himself a glass of Knotgrass Mead and, as he fights with Malfoy for the better part of the evening, Harry is filled with a familiar sensation he hasn’t felt for a long time.

* * *

**[December 2001]**

A year passes and Harry is still a living mess. Improved, but still a mess.

He doesn’t collapse on the floor anymore, he manages to arrive to bed now. Hangovers are yet horrible but the potion helps. And Ginny. She comes over every day for breakfast–when she isn’t abroad playing Quidditch. Harry suspects that’s her way to make sure he doesn’t spend the day in bed. Ginny’s been pressuring him to get a job, or at least go to therapy, but Harry isn’t ready. He promised her he will do it–both things–just not yet.

“Don’t forget today is the party,” Ginny tells him over breakfast.

_Bloody hell_. Harry had completely forgotten about it. “Do I have to go this year, too?” he asks, making a face. “You know Pansy hates me.”

“What,” Ginny exclaims more than asks, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “She doesn’t hate you, Harry. In fact, she’s quite fond of you.”

“Gin,” Harry says. “She tried to hand me over to Voldemort.”

“Harry,” says Ginny, her expression suddenly serious. “We all made mistakes. We were at war, for Merlin’s sake!” Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ginny this upset before. “And you don’t know what she had to go through,” she adds. “Just fucking grow up already, you’re not seventeen anymore.”

Harry knows Ginny is right. But people can’t expect him to suddenly trust the ones who, not that long ago, wanted him dead. “Well, she sure has a funny way to show it,” he says.

“I have to go help prepare everything,” Ginny says, standing up and cleaning the breadcrumbs of her–Pansy’s–leather jacket. She’s gotten the bad habit of wearing Pansy’s clothes lately.

“Have fun,” Harry wishes her, taking a sip of the potion. He doesn’t even grimace anymore.

“I will,” she says, opening the door. “And Harry?”

“Yes?”

She gives him one of her Ginny looks that make one wish to be dead, before saying, “Don’t be late this time,” and closes the door behind her.

There is no way Harry will be late this time.

Harry makes sure to shave before Flooing to Hermione and Ron’s place so they can all go together to the Parkinsons’. Going with them is a double win: Harry won’t be late to the party and, most importantly, he won’t have to sit beside Draco bloody Malfoy again.

Harry and Ron spend the night talking about Quidditch, and drinking Butterbeer and elderflower wine–the only alcoholic drinks Hermione lets them have. At least this year Harry doesn’t have to stand Malfoy.

He’s at the other end of the room, talking to Blaise Zabini. Harry can’t help sparing a glance or two over their table. Their conversation doesn’t look too interesting, if Malfoy’s face is any indication. He’s resting his head on his hand, boredly sipping at his drink. He doesn’t look as bad as last year but he still isn’t the same he used to be all those years ago. Although Harry guesses no one is.

Malfoy catches him staring and holds his gaze. Then, abruptly, Malfoy jumps up and walks away. Harry thinks about following him; see what he’s up to. But he discards the idea.

“We’re leaving,” Hermione says, seconds later. Ron is drunk enough to fall asleep on the table at any moment. “Harry, you should go, too.”

Hermione is right. Harry is quite tipsy, too, and he doesn’t want to pass out here of all places. But the elderflower wine is doing its usual effect and Harry needs to take a toilet break. “Yeah,” he says, and excuses himself for the toilet.

Harry’s break should have lasted two minutes, at most, if it weren’t for the annoying person occupying the bathroom, who is taking forever to come out.

Harry has the not-so-brilliant idea of opening the door by force. But, it turns out, he’s drunker than he thought and, as he rushes to the door, he stomps on his foot. At the same time, the door opens from the inside, making him inevitably crash against Draco Malfoy, tumbling them both to the ground.

Malfoy lets out an exasperated sigh. “Sodding Potter,” he curses. “What on Salazar’s name were you doing?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, from on top of Malfoy. “I just wanted to open the door.”

“By falling onto it?”

Harry adjusts his glasses. “What was it taking you so long?”

“None of your business,” spits Malfoy. “Just get off me, already.”

Not without a great deal of effort, Harry manages to hoist himself up onto his elbows, taking a moment so as  not to throw up.

“What the fuck are you staring at, Potter?”

“Obviously not you, Malfoy,” Harry says.

“Yes?” Malfoy says, gritting his teeth. “I’m not a Death Eater anymore, so you don’t have to bloody follow me everywhere like you used to do.” Then, he adds, making a full stop between every word, “Get the fuck off me.”

Harry lifts himself up from Malfoy, balancing himself with a hand against the wall. “That’s…” he starts, but he can’t deny it; he used to follow Malfoy. But for good reasons: He used to be evil. He may still be.

“I’m not the fucking Golden Boy like you, but that doesn’t give you any right to stalk me, Potter,” Malfoy snarls, standing up.

“I’m not following you!”

“Why would I believe you?” asks Malfoy.

“Believe what you want, Malfoy,” Harry says, entering the loo.

When Harry steps out, Malfoy is outside waiting for him to continue their quarrel. Malfoy looks every bit as drunk as Harry. “Seriously, stop following me, Potter,” he says.

Harry is too tipsy to ignore him so he snaps back, “Why don’t _you_ stop following _me_?”

Ron and Hermione are already gone but Harry is way too amused fighting Malfoy to leave.

They keep fighting for a long time and, maybe due to the influence of the alcohol, the unexpected happens: They end up having a civilized conversation. It’s almost even something close to nice.

But they both keep drinking until they have to be taken home by Ginny and Pansy.

* * *

**[December 2002]**

Harry finally listens to Ginny and starts going to therapy. He and alcohol are no longer friends and, consequently, his life is a little bit less of a mess.

Against all odds, Ginny and Pansy survived all the media pressure that started after them making their thing public and moved in together. Like Hermione and Ron, they pay Harry a visit on the weekends and have tea together.

“You’d better come to the party, Potter,” Pansy tells him, taking the last swig of her tea. She’s wearing one of Ginny’s Quidditch jumpers. “Don’t forget it’s today. Seven sharp,” she says, and it somehow sounds like a menace.

Harry gulps. “Yeah…”

When Harry gets to the house, he realises every guest have their designated place to seat. Something about making it more “classy” now that they have their own house, Pansy says.

He looks over where Hermione and Ron are but Harry’s name isn’t around there. He keeps looking until he finds his name card–far from his friends.

As Harry goes to sit down, a small miscalculation in distance makes his foot trip with the chair and stumble onto the person sitting next to him, being it none other than Draco bloody Malfoy.

“Sodding Potter,” Malfoy hisses, flattening his suit and picking off an imaginary speck of dust.

Harry gets back to his feet, wishing the earth would swallow him up. “Sorry, Malfoy. I didn’t see you.”

“Are you doing it on purpose?” Malfoy snarls, crossing his arms.

“No!” Harry protests and sits down on his seat.

Malfoy bites his lip and briefly shakes his head. “Then why is it always me the victim of your severe lack of motor coordination?”

“I didn’t ask to be placed next to you, Malfoy,” says Harry.

“What do you even wear glasses for?” Malfoy mutters. “At least this year you don’t stink of vomit.”

“Yeah,” Harry admits. “Hangover potion.”

“What?” Malfoy asks, confused.

“The smell. It was hangover potion,” Harry explains, at the same time dinner is served, which gives him the opportunity to take a brief pause, while bringing a piece of Yorkshire pudding to his mouth. “I kind of was going through a rough time,” he continues. Harry doesn’t know why he’s telling Malfoy about his problems, nor if he even cares, but it actually feels… relieving.

Malfoy says, so low it’s almost a whisper, “I was having a bad time, too.” He’s looking down at his plate, playing with his fork.

Harry remembers the Malfoy from two years ago, trying really hard to hide his exhaustion. Certainly not his favourite Malfoy. “I’m sorry,” is all Harry can say.

Malfoy doesn’t say another word for the rest of dinner.

When dessert comes, Harry is too eager to eat the chocolate cake, with the result of it falling from the spoon right before Harry can put it into his mouth.

Malfoy tries to stifle a laugh. “You are way too cack-handed for being an auror,” he says.

“Malfoy?” Harry asks, genuinely surprised. “Are you shitting me?”

“No?” Malfoy says, . “You have to admit it, Potter, you aren’t the most dexterous person.”

“No, I know that,” says Harry. “But I’m not an auror.”

“Whatever,” says Malfoy, discarding his dessert plate. “Minister?”

“Don’t you read The Daily Prophet?” Harry asks, this time managing to eat a spoonful of cake.

“I am not in the habit of reading garbage.”

With his mouth full, Harry says, “I’m nothing.”  He finishes his cake and starts nervously tapping his foot against the table leg. “I mean, I don’t have a job.”

“Oh,” says Malfoy, surprised. “Since Weasley _is_ an auror, I assumed…” he trails off. “Why don’t you teach at Hogwarts, then?”

“What?”

“Didn’t you already use to do it in fifth year?” asks Malfoy. “With your little Dumbledore’s army?” It visibly pains Draco to even say his name.

“Yes!” Harry smiles remembering how happy it made him. “We had to stop, though. Thanks to you.”

“Nobody is stopping you now.”

“I guess you’re right, Malfoy,” Harry says.

“I always am,” Malfoy smirks.

“What about you?” asks Harry.

“What about me?”

“Are you working?”

“Not at the moment,” Malfoy replies.

“Is there anything you’d like to do?”

Malfoy thinks about it before answering, “Might be a Healer.”

It is a mystery to Harry why Malfoy is telling him all that. He doesn’t remember the exact moment when they started tolerating each other and stopped being sworn enemies. And it occurs to Harry that maybe they never were. “Then go for it,” he says, smiling.

The night passes by rather fast and soon it’s time to go back home. Harry never thought it was possible to hold a decent conversation with Malfoy, while being completely sober.

* * *

**[December 2003]**

Harry becomes professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. Headmaster McGonngall was very pleased when Harry applied for the job–it turned out to be a challenge finding a decent professor who wasn’t afraid of the jinx that position used to have.

For once in his life, Harry has to thank Malfoy for the advice. He actually has thought quite a lot about Malfoy this past year, especially at Hogwarts.

Ginny comes alone for breakfast at 12 Grimmauld Place for Christmas. Even though Harry lives at Hogwarts during the school year, Ginny still drops by from time to time.

“The party is tonight, right?” Harry asks her.

“Yes, Pansy is in charge of the seats arrangements this time, so don’t worry,” she says. “I’m so sorry about last year’s mistake, Harry.”

“It’s okay, Gin,” Harry assures her. “I survived.”

“Plus, Pans says she’s reserved you the best place.”

“I guess she isn’t that evil after all,” Harry jokes. Harry wouldn’t consider Pansy Parkinson his best friend but he has to admit she’s actually quite decent after all. “Does she know you call her _Pans_ behind her back?”

Ginny brings a finger to her lips, mouthing, “Shh.”

Harry wonders what place has Pansy reserved for him and plays with the idea of it being next to Draco Malfoy. Last year was actually very nice and Harry wouldn’t mind sitting beside him again this year.

But of course that won’t happen, because Pansy thinks they hate each other.

Harry arrives at the party quite early. He finds his place, at the far end of the table and notices that there’s only another plate beside him and then there are many empty seats, isolating them from the rest. Harry peers at the name card beside him, taking it in his hand to see it closer.

There’s no mistake. The card reads Draco Malfoy.

“That’s my seat, Potter.”

Harry jumps, dropping the card with Malfoy’s name. His knees give out, but he somehow manages not to fall onto Malfoy. Again.

“Already drunk?” Malfoy asks as he swings into his seat.

Harry ruffles his hair in frustration. “No, I was just…”

“Staring at my name?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I mean…” Harry feels an uncontrollable surge of heat rushing to his cheeks.

Malfoy laughs.

“What?” Harry asks, ignoring the lump in his stomach.

“Nothing. It’s just too funny to see you all flustered.”

“I’m not…” starts Harry.

“It’s fine, Potter,” Malfoy says.

Harry finds his legs are working enough to sit. “So, uhm. We have to sit together again, huh?”

“Apparently so.” Malfoy fakes a disgusted look.

“I’ve been told it’s Pansy’s doing this year,” Harry tells him.

“Oh, is that so?” Malfoy says, uninterested. “So I heard you’re the new professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

“Are you reading the Prophet again?” Harry asks, surprised.

“Salazar, no. Pansy told me,” he says. “Anyway, congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Also, guess who’s just become a Healer,” says Malfoy, smirking.

“I told you you could do it!” Harry is so happy he could actually hug Malfoy right now.

“Thank you, Potter,” Malfoy says and Harry’s stomach twists into a knot again. Because Malfoy is smiling. Not smirking. A genuine Draco Malfoy Smile. Harry didn’t think those existed.

“Want to know something?” Malfoy asks out of the blue.

“Yeah?”

“The beard,” Malfoy says. “It really suited you.”

Harry guesses Malfoy is just drunk but the comment makes something stir inside him. “Thanks,” he says, and continues eating.

Harry has a nice time talking to Malfoy until they realise they’re the only ones left in the party and go separate ways.

* * *

**[December 2004]**

Harry kind of spends the whole year looking forward to the annual party. Last year’s proved to be very entertaining and he may or may not miss having a conversation with Draco.

And it’s not like he can break into the Malfoy Manor and demand to have tea with Draco. Although he supposes he could invite Draco over. But Harry is trapped in too many “what-ifs”: What if he says no? What if he laughs at Harry’s invitation? What if it annoys him? What if it angers him? It’s a nice thought, though. Having tea with Draco Malfoy.

This year, Ginny is abroad for a match and will not be in England until later in the afternoon, so Pansy comes alone for breakfast at Harry’s.

She brings muffins and scones and is a surprisingly nice company.

“For being a Slytherin you aren’t that bad,” Harry tells her, finishing his muffin.

Pansy flashes him a murderous look and gives him the finger.

“No, seriously, Pans,” Harry insists. “You are great. Ginny is lucky to have you in her life.”

“Don’t get it wrong, Potter. _I_ am the lucky one, but…” Pansy says, suddenly all serious. “Do you think she will want to be lucky with me for the rest of her life?”

“Wait,” Harry says. “Are you… going to propose?”

Pansy nods and takes out a little box from inside her leather jacket. She opens it and shows it to Harry. Inside it, there’s a ring with a green band and a little red diamond in the center.

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Pansy says, pocketing it back.

“Of course she will say yes,” says Harry.

“Thank you,” Pansy says, making her way to the door. Before leaving, she turns around, catching Harry’s gaze. “Also, Potter?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t call me Pans ever again,” she deadpans. “Or you’ll regret it.” Which in Pansy language means, “or you die.”

Harry swallows.

Pansy’s lips curl up in a devious smirk. “See you later, Potts.”

Harry arrives to the Parkinson-Weasley house half an hour early to help the couple with anything they need. (Not because he was bored.)

Pansy told Harry this year everyone could choose where to sit. No name cards. She said it’s “an experiment.”

The only other guest already at the party is Draco. He’s talking animatedly to Ginny, helping her with the cutlery arrangement. Harry wonders when these two became friends.

Malfoy’s attire is even more fancy than the past years. He’s wearing a light blue suit that fits him just perfectly in all the right places. When it comes to clothing–among other things, Harry’s mind adds–Draco Malfoy never disappoints.

“Liking what you see, Potter?”

Pansy’s voice startles Harry, making him deviate his attention back to the task in hand. It occurs to Harry that he’s been staring at Ginny and Malfoy for quite a long time and Pansy could have mistaken the situation.

“You know I don’t like Ginny,” he hurries to assure her. “I mean, I love her. Just as friends, you know that.”

Then, Pansy does something Harry has never seen her do: She bursts out laughing. “Calm down, Harry, I know,” she says, recovering. “I wasn’t talking about her.” Pansy winks an eye at Harry and goes talk to her girlfriend.

Harry wonders what she meant. Was she possibly talking about Draco? No, that’s _crazy_.

Harry walks over where Draco is and tells him about Pansy and the ring because he just can’t hold it in.

Draco looks genuinely surprised. “Ginevra and I have been planning this for months,” he says. “She will _also_ propose today.”

“What? They both plan to propose today?”

“We’ll see,” Draco laughs.

“Who do you think will propose first?” Harry asks.

“Want to bet?” Draco says, arching his eyebrows and taking a bottle of Dragon Barrel Brandy.

Harry is tempted to say yes. He _really_ wants to say yes. Not to the alcohol, but to Draco.

But he can’t drink.

Or maybe he can, if he can manage to somehow turn the brandy into something non-alcoholic. Harry quickly thinks of every spell he knows, but can’t come up with anything useful. But, luckily, he knows the best person for that. Hermione.

“Yes,” he tells Draco and excuses himself for a toilet break.

After he convinces Hermione to spell his glass so that it turns alcoholic beverages into virgin ones, Harry takes his seat back and pours him and Draco a glass of brandy. “I bet Pans proposes first,” he says.

Draco fails to fight a laugh. “If she ever hears you call her that…”

Draco’s laugh is contagious and it always catches Harry by surprise. It’s that rare kind of phenomenon that makes you stare stupidly at it before realising you are unable to move. Harry thinks it will never fail to amaze him. “Don’t tell her,” he says.

“What do we do while we wait?” Draco asks.

“We could bet on other things,” Harry suggests.

They spend the night competing about who can come up with the silliest bet, and getting smashed in the process. Well, faking it, in Harry’s case.

Draco keeps giving Harry what appear to be casual touches here and there: A hand lingering on Harry’s shoulder; their fingers brushing as Draco takes the bottle from Harry’s hand; Draco’s sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearm grazing the back of Harry’s hand. But Harry isn’t fooled; nothing Draco Malfoy ever does is _casual_.

Harry, though, has slipped into a perfect drunk impersonation, so he pretends not to notice. But a thought that he’s been unconsciously avoiding makes its way to the top of Harry’s head: What if he likes Draco?

“I bet we can’t get outside without being caught,” Draco says, loosening his tie, amusedly looking at Harry.

Uneventfully, Harry and Draco make it to the front of the house and settle on the bench, Draco’s leg perilously close to Harry’s.

“I bet you can’t kiss Ron,” Harry says, playfully.

“I would rather die,” says Draco, and chugs the rest of the brandy.

After discarding the bottle, Draco stretches out and lays his head on Harry’s shoulder. The silence is suddenly so loud Harry can barely hear his own thoughts. Which is a good thing, because Harry would rather just ignore them.

Draco moves his head lightly, his pointy nose breathing against Harry’s neck. Harry turns around to look at him and their noses touch. Draco’s eyes are closed.

Draco’s face looks so peaceful under the dim light of the night sky that Harry doesn’t even dare to breathe. Their lips are millimeters apart.

“I bet you can’t kiss me,” Draco whispers, so low Harry doesn’t know if he’s imagined it.

Harry’s throat is so dry he can’t speak, his heart echoing in his ear so loud it’s like it has multiplied a thousandfold.

Harry moves his mouth to Draco’s, abusing that blurry gray area between kissing and accidentally brushing lips, and it feels the bravest thing he’s ever done. Saving the world was easy in comparison.

Everything stands still for a moment. Their lips. The world.

Then, Draco’s lips start moving slowly against Harry’s. Harry kisses him back and then he suddenly wants more. He holds Draco’s head in his hands, his mouth fiery and demanding.

Draco complies, letting Harry kiss him deeper, his hands tugging at Harry’s hair. A soft moan escapes Draco’s mouth, fucking murdering Harry’s last brain cell.

Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of Draco Malfoy.

But then Harry remembers that Draco is drunk, and he isn’t. Which can mean Harry might be taking advantage of the situation. “I should go,” Harry says, breaking the kiss. Pretending this isn’t the best freaking thing that’s ever happened to him.

“Me too,” says Draco, his Adam’s apple lifting and lowering as he swallows.

Harry urgently needs to do something before he’s all over Draco again, so he turns around and leaves.

* * *

**[December 2005]**

Harry’s year is a slow-motion torture. What happened between him and Draco has colonized Harry’s mind: He can’t stop thinking about Draco and the kiss.

He spent the first months trying to convince himself that it was a mistake. In March he gave up and started thinking about how much he liked it. In May he came to the conclusion that what he really likes is Draco Malfoy himself. In July he considered and discarded going to the Manor and trying something out of it all. In September he remembered Draco was smashed the day of the kiss and he probably doesn’t even remember. In November he realises he has missed Draco all year, badly. And it finally dawns on him that he’s _fucked_. Because he’s in love with Draco Malfoy.

When Harry arrives to the annual party, only Ginny and Pansy are there. Fact that may have something to do with Harry being one hour early. (Not that he’s anticipating anything. Or _anyone_.)

This year, Harry has opted for finally following Pansy’s advice about the clothing etiquette. He’s wearing a black dress robe–one of the finest from Madam Malkin’s–over a dark gray suit vest that Pansy chose. And he’s grown a beard, too.

Harry helps his friends with the final arrangements and takes a seat while he waits for the rest of the guests to arrive. One in particular.

But Harry waits and waits. And Draco never comes.

And despite Harry being crowded by most of his friends, he actually feels… alone. Harry thinks of drinking his loneliness away, but the simple sight of alcohol brings him memories of Draco and last year’s party. And the kiss.

Harry starts pacing across the room, ignoring every person who approaches him to talk, until the place feels too small and Harry is overpowered by the urge to run. So he does. He leaves the house and runs away.

Almost unconsciously, Harry Apparates in front of the Malfoy Manor.

After twenty minutes waiting for a response from inside the Manor, Harry falls to the floor, resting his back against the iron gates. He isn’t sure about what he is doing here, or what he expects from Draco. Something. Just _anything_ would do. Seriously, Draco could come out right now and kick Harry in the shin and Harry would be happy.

But he doesn’t. (Get out.) (Nor kick him in the shin.)

Harry can’t believe his relationship–or friendship, or whatever the fuck–with Draco has ended before it even started.

He tries it one last time. But, instead of ringing the doorbell, Harry sends Draco a Patronus Charm.

Five minutes. Twenty. Half an hour. Nothing.

Harry stands up and gives the Manor one last look. And then the gates open. He stares stupidly at them until he comes back to his senses and starts running through the driveway.

Draco is sitting on the step before the door, staring at the ground.

Harry takes a minute to enjoy the sight. What is he going to tell him? Harry sighs, steading himself. “Draco,” is all he says. And it’s like a spell, making him feel instantly better. Because it’s the first time he’s said Draco’s name out loud.

Draco looks up and their eyes meet. And the world stops.

Draco stands up so that they’re only inches apart. Harry swallows. He feels more than sees Draco grabbing him by the collar. His nostrils flare and Harry thinks he must be very angry. “Potter,” he finally says, his voice breaking. Harry’s heart breaking. “Fucking. Potter.”

Harry thinks Draco might kill him tonight. But instead, he kisses him.

Locking eyes with Draco Malfoy can make the world stop. Locking lips with him makes the world _melt_.

Draco pins Harry against the wall and angles his head, deepening the kiss. Reconstructing Harry’s heart one kiss at a time.

Somehow–very inelegantly, and without leaving each other’s lips–they make it inside the Manor.

Correction: They make it to the Manor’s Hall floor, because kissing and walking at the same time is sodding hard and Harry already has problems with the latter alone.

Draco laughs against Harry’s lips. “You bloody fucking stupid clumsy shite.”

“Wow,” Harry says, staring at Draco and probably grinning like an idiot. “Where did your eloquence go?”

Draco stops laughing and just stares at Harry. Softly, he runs a hand along Harry’s cheek and slowly reaches up for Harry’s mouth, closing his eyes and parting his lips. _This_ , Harry decides. This is his favourite Draco Malfoy.

When Harry wakes up in the morning, he is sure he’s just dreamt it all. But then he finds himself alone in Draco’s bed. He has a moment of panic, thinking Draco might have run away, before he enters the room carrying breakfast on a tray.

“What’s that face for, Potter?”

Harry fights a smile. “Just call me Harry,” he says, pulling Draco into a kiss.

“By the way,” Draco says. “Nice beard, Harry.”

* * *

**[December 2006]**

Draco carefully fixes Harry’s–Draco’s, actually–green tie. He bites his lower lip, as he does when he’s concentrated, his pale blue eyes focused on the tie.

Harry still can’t help feeling a springing on his chest every time Draco is this close–so close that he can feel Draco’s breath on his face–which is _all the time_. “I kind of told Ginny,” Harry tells him.

Draco moves his gaze to Harry’s eyes, letting go of the tie. “You did what?”

“And Ron. And Hermione,” Harry adds, averting his eyes. “Maybe Luna, too.”

“Harry,” Draco says trying to sound stern, but his face betrays him. “We agreed to keep it a secret.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I _swear_ I tried but they sort of pried it out of me.”

“How?”

Harry shrugs. “They kept asking me why I was so happy,” he says, meeting Draco’s eyes. “Also Ron caught us once showering in my apartment.”

“Ew.”

Harry laughs at Draco’s faked expression of disgust. “He spent two days without looking at me in the eye.”

“That doesn’t sound half bad,” says Draco, a smile hiding in the corners of his mouth. “Actually,” he adds. “Pansy already knew.”

“She knew?” Harry asks.

“She saw us kissing.”

“When?”

“Two years ago,” says Draco. “You don’t remember because you drank your weight in brandy but…”

“I wasn’t drunk,” Harry confesses. “I thought _you_ were drunk.”

“I used a magical alcohol drainer. I…”  Draco trails off. “I wanted to remember.”

“Remember?” Harry asks, confused.

“Maybe I was planning on kissing you that night.”

Draco’s hands travel back to Harry’s tie, only to pull at it this time, making their lips clash together. Harry places his arms around Draco’s neck, where he wants to spend the next five hundred years, and kisses him back.

Harry recognises the familiar sensation filling his chest every time he’s near Draco: Happiness.

-FIN-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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